Transformers Prime : The Shark of Kaon
by Mr. Bluu
Summary: Cybertron didn't fall in a day.
1. Chapter 1

Heavy.

His breath tore through his cyclers and fans, exiting his colossal frame littered with casually thrown wounds. It ravaged its way out of his vocaliser and was caught in the stinking wind. That wind whipped through the Grand Pit of Kaon, bringing with it the stench of a dozen offlined mechs and femmes. All of them he has barreled through for his freedom, and this final contender will soon join the scrapyard around them.

For ten millennia he has labored for his freedom, accrued notoriety untold across the face of Cybertron, and now his final test begins. His venture is the venture of all the Underfoot, every Vehicon and Seeker indentured to a master of untold cruelty.

Megatronus will pay the price for their freedom in the blood of his enemies. Now, only one remains.

They stare into each others optics across a field of death, a veritable no mech's land.

Megatronus's blade is heavy set into his arm, long and thick and resilient. A finer blade he had never seen, though it had been forced into his unwanting arm by his sadistic masters. Even heavier upon his massive limb was the fusion cannon, currently inactive as it would violate the Grand Pit's rules of engagement. A thinly-veiled excuse, Megatronus thought, to set the odds against him.

No matter. The corrupt agenda of Cybertron's affluent would begin its slow burn this day.

His blue optics settled on the mech before him, Blackout, and he began to walk towards him, pedes shuffling and kicking up dirt and bits of his victims. Blackout smirked, red optics crinkled in murderous amusement. His roto-like weapon began to spin menacingly as he, too, started to walk towards his opponent. Blackout's frame was the same color of the raw rock Megatronus had once tunneled through in his youth. Endless digging in the bowels of Cybertron's mines, drilling through the natural core of the planet in search of Energon deposits. Whatever he found would be put into the systems of Cybertron's families the globe over. None but the tiniest fragments were afforded to those of the Underfoot race, those who did all of the backstrut-shattering work. They were left to starve, drained of all resources with which to power their circuits, in their ghettos and hovels.

The crowd said nothing, every optic focused completely upon the two, striding across the wasteland of lost life towards one another. Megatronus's blade drifts across the ground. Friction paints a white-orange scar across the technoscape. He can almost see, in his mind's optic, the same line across Blackout's chassis as the two halves of his frame share a parting embrace before collapsing to the ground.

They were close now. He could see every metal component and copper wire in his opponent's optics . . . and the savagery, the lust for what he thought would be his next kill. The Underfoot mech cared nothing for his race. But also, in those scarlet orbs, Megatronus saw something else.

Fear.

A smile cracked open his faceplate. One tear of uncertainty in his opponent's mind was all he required.

It was over in less than a second.

They had met. In a flash, Blackout was on his knees, Megatronus's huge blade pointed at his neck cables, a gaping, energon-pouring wound where his right arm and weapon were. The cut was parallel with his frame. In a wild slice, the momentum from Blackout's spin had taken the arm right into his opponent's path. Easy prey for a hungry weapon.

He rolled to the side and swiped at Megatronus with a clawed, undamaged servo, but the blades on his digits caught on his rival gladiator's chassis armor. With a swift sweep of the blade, all Blackout's limb below his wrist fell the the ground.

Again, the massive weapon was pointed at his neck cables, poised to sever each one at a moment's notice.

"I yield, Megatronus," he rasped, the chittering mass he called a vocaliser barely open. "The title is yours. Your freedom is won."

Megatronus chuckled, his optics hardening cruelly. "Why would I give Sentinel Prime's cyber-dog mercy, even if he yields? To yield, in this place. . . in this world, to yield is to die, traitor to your race."

And with that, Blackout's helm tumbled to the ground, the red dying from his optics and the blue pouring from the open wound where it once was. The crowd went wild, and Megatronus turned to them, smiling and flexing his arms. A few femmes in the crowd fainted, and others bore their sparks to him in reckless abandon. He laughed long and loud. Too much high-grade.

It was finally over. Now, perhaps, with all of the fame he had accrued, the one mech he needed to listen to him might lend his audio receptor.

In the Grandmaster's Hall, Iacon . . .

After he had been patched up and given his Rite of Release, he trudged on through hordes of fans and Recorder bots with their photoreceptors. The flashes of them periodically blinded the entire crowd, and Megatronus growled and almost roared as deep as his vocaliser would, though he managed to stay his servo.

The halls were brightly lit, smooth grey walls covered in ornate patterns of gold and red. Holo-paintings lined the patterns, displays of Grandmasters past and present. It surprised him, and altogether fascinated him. Megatronus had only ever been beholden to grime and dust and dirt and blood in his dwellings. To see such splendor, even as a veritable celebrity to Cybertron's billions, was a rare opportunity.

While enjoying the decorum, one of the Recorder-bots managed to slide in front of him, press a servo into his chassis and stop him dead in his tracks. A microphone was pressed into his faceplate, and the bot looked to his partner, holding a camera blinking crimson.

"Megatronus," He began in a loud, authoritative voice, making sure to switch his optics back to the camera. "Tell us, what does it feel like to have emerged this far out of the Underfoot district, enough to, of course, have an audience with Grandmaster Halogen himself?"

Megatronus at first sputtered out a random collection of syllables and sounds, never had he been proficient at public speaking, especially on record. His brows knitted in annoyance, and as he was about to shove the Recorder-bot out of the way when a shrill, rasping cry echoed from the crowd.

"SCRAPLET! I SWEAR THE RETCH BIT INTO MY PEDE! CALL THE ERADICONS, QUICKLY!"

It was as if the a herd of Dinobots had begun to thunder through the hall. The crowd broke into a frenzy, desperate to avoid the carnivorous creatures. It was widely known throughout Cybertron that Scraplets were never alone. Whole swarms of the creatures would rip through the less financially sound cities across Cybertron, leaving only shredded shavings of steel where whole mechs and femmes had been.

When all was said and done, and the rabid populace had been sent running for their lives, only one mech was left standing. Or, at least Megatronus thought it was a mech.

It was a Seeker, judging by the lofty-looking wings on its backstrut and the delicate features. A grill framed its faceplate, and red facial crests adorned its forehead. Its primary colors were differing shades of grey and sliver, along with regal dashes of red, so it was, in fact, an Underfoot. If it was a mech, Megatronus was most confused by the high-heeled, feminine pedes that its lower half ended in. Its - or Megatronus assumed now, his - servos ended in sharp, razorlike claws, not unlike those of Blackout.

"Anything for the Shark of Kaon," he said in the same high-pitched, gravelly tone. "You seemed as though you required a little space."

Megatronus raised an eyeridge, frame stretched and calm with the lack of attention. "More than I can say, Seeker. Thank you, . . .?"

"I am Starscream, master of the Flight Sports of Vos, son of Magistrate Cyclonus himself. I came to witness the coronation of the king of Kaon's fighting pits! A historic day, I'm sure you know. It has been at least a thousand vorns since anyone came anywhere close to finishing off that lug Blackout." Starscream smiled, a wolfish grin that played across his faceplate. And yet, it displayed no malice.

"He . . . has had it coming for quite a long time," Megatronus replied, rather sheepishly. "He turned his back on those who made him from nothing. Death was the only justice afforded to him."

"No . . . bad history, I hope?" Starscream's faceplate twisted as if he'd ingested rusted energon. His glossa exited his mouth and he gagged. "Always . . . delightful, really, participating in old feuds. Makes the vorns pass quicker." He chuckled under his breath, and then stalked over to Megatronus, clutching his bladed shoulder armor in one slender claw.

"It was sarcasm, you know. Only a poor joke." He patted the larger mech's shoulder armor.

"I'm afraid I'm . . . a little out of touch."

"Well, no matter,"Starscream replied, a sigh escaping his vocaliser. "I was on my way to Grandmaster Halogen to discuss the budget for this vorn's flight sports. Would I be in the way of an accomplice?" He shrugged his servo in Megatronus's direction.

The bigger mech's blue optics followed the limb as it went back to Starscream's side. "I was on my way there myself. Why else do you think the Grandmaster would allow an Underfoot mech in his palace?"

"Well for one," Starscream replied, now walking down the hallway at Megatronus's side. "Bloodline." His own red optics drifted to his crest, one of the few splashes of color on his otherwise boring frame. "Do I look like an Elaborate to you? Well, my grandfather was one, but that's so far off the main CNA pathways that it hardly matters. Vos is the one place where a mech can escape the caste system, and I had broken those bonds since before my mother was sparked."

"I haven't visited," Megatronus said back. "The pits have been my home for all my life. I never knew my father, but my mother tells me he was a . . .Dinobot."

Starscream was incredulous, staring Megatronus square in the faceplate. "Dinobot? We haven't seen one of those marauders since the war, not since Commander Bonecrusher drove them back."

Megatronus strained his recollection files, stretching them as far back as he could. The Dinobot War had been millennia ago, long before he had ever become a gladiator. He hadn't known of the conflict from anything but heresy and rumor from the huddled bots in Kaon's ghettos. He'd been but a youth then, training his endurance and protoform in the heat and stench of Cybertron's core. No lick of the war had ever touched him, no ounce of its horrors had ever touched his mind. The Grand Pit had seen to that.

"I've never paid it much mind. Wherever my father is, he wasn't there when my mother and I were drowning in filth." Megatronus's optics became slits and they glittered in rage, his frame's power system involuntarily routing energy to his optic filaments. They glowed brightly for a moment before returning to their normal state.

Starscream stopped him, walking in front of Megatronus and pressing his servos into his companion's chassis. The Seeker's faceplate was etched with a nervous look, and he bit his lip components. "C-calm down, friend. Shall we go to see the Grandmaster?"

"Yes, I suppose."

The two trudged on towards the council chamber, chatting and laughing about various conquests. Finally, the bright silver, exquisitely carved doors greeted them. Starscream bowed and gestured to the elaborate entryways. "After you, Master Fighter."

Megatronus wasn't listening. Though he indeed opened the doors and walked through. His focus was entirely within himself. What lay ahead for him? What did the next few minutes hold for him? Would Halogen and the council even bother to heed his words? Would they even receive him? In all his life he had never seen their respect for tradition extended to Underfoot mechs and femmes. Perhaps they'd simply throw him from the hall before he could voice his demands.

Or perhaps their consciences were not as dead as he thought. Perhaps their neural nets weren't so fried that they would continue to hold an entire people in bondage. Whatever the outcome, he had to forge on.

The doors opened, and a voice, deep and baritone smooth, spoke to him.

"Megatronus, enter my hall. Speak before your Grandmaster and your Magistrates, and be made a free son of Primus."

Hope you all have enjoyed this first chapter of the story of our favorite 'Con warlord.

Drop a review below with criticism or praise!


	2. Chapter 2

There he stood, a gladiator lorded over by shadowed faceplates and beady optics staring down at him. The darkness was unbroken, and all he could see was the twinkle of their orbs as they regarded him, emotions ranging from disgust to apprehensiveness to, surprisingly enough, curiosity.

The door screwed shut behind him, just as Starscream nervously jumped his way through the imploding entryway. That intrigued Megatronus slightly. As the son the Magistrate of Vos, Starscream must have handled intra-city relations with Halogen before. Why did he seem so spooked all of a sudden? Megatronus didn't take him as a bot uncultured enough to believe in something like spirits, and he was affluent enough to not be intimidated by his rich peers.. Not that being uncultured had anything to do with it, he realized. Megatronus was as low on Cybertron's social order as mechs and femmes could come, and he refuted the idea of ghosts altogether. He'd personally slain thousands of bots and not a one had returned from Unicron's servos to take revenge.

But then the darkness lifted, and Megatronus was confronted with the rulers of him and all he'd known.

First was Sentinel Prime, Magistrate of Kaon. He was a large mech, tall and powerful and in the prime of his life. Red and yellow adorned his frame, and as Megatronus's blue optics glared up at him, Sentinel's yellow ones narrowed in disdain right back. Sentinel kept Kaon's people on a tight leash, maintaining all authority over the direction of the Underfoot slaves and the fighting pits. Arrogant, powerful, and oblivious to the sufferings of bots not in his own race.

Second was Decimus Prime, Magistrate of Tyger Pax. He was an older bot, advanced in both age and restlessness since the end of the Dinobot War. All Megatronus knew of him was that the War had been where Decimus's mettle had been proven, and that battle was what he lived for ; then his bodyguard, another veteran of the Dinobot War named Ultra Magnus, was a good fit.

Next came Cyclonus, the Magistrate of Vos. Cyclonus was slender, built for flight as all Seekers were. His cold gray faceplate had rivulets of wear dragged into the metal, stress from his duties as Cybertron's only non-Prime Magistrate and as being the ruler of Cybertron's melting pot of runaway slaves and Seeker culture. His red optics spun as the lenses within focused downwards. Megatronus gazed in the same direction, down to the shaking husk that was Starscream, his optics pointed at the floor and his digits digging into his pedes.

Megatronus patted him on the backstrut. Surprised, Starscream yelped, stood still and alert, and then suddenly relaxed and stared up at the now illuminated council members.

"Starscream, son of Magistrate Cyclonus," the same vocaliser that had welcomed Megatronus in earlier spoke. "You come before the High Council of Cybertron. What business do you bring?"

"Oh, well I . . ." and then it became a funnel of static noise as Megatronus stopped listening, retreating back into himself as his focus turned to the High Council, assembled before his optics for the very first time.

After Cyclonus came the wizened old Solus Prime, Magistrate of Crystal City. Though ancient, even by Cybertronians' rather high standards, Solus Prime commanded enormous respect from both Megatronus and legions of mechs and femmes across Cybertron, for she was the last of the Thirteen - the original Primes, created by the almighty Primus to assist him in his battle against the Chaos Bringer, Unicron. However, among some that respect was beginning to fade. Though Solus Prime was a revered cultural hero, she was also in charge of a failing city plagued by gentrification and racial tension.

The last Magistrate was Rodimus Prime, Magistrate of the city of Simfur. If ever Megatronus had disliked a mech, or more accurately wished to crush one's neck cables in his servo, it would be Rodimus. The mech had no morals, not a single code of good intention ran in his neural net. Rodimus's intended goals and his loyalties could change at the flick of a switch, and his only constraint was keeping the crime ridden streets from bursting into open riots.

"Megatronus? Megatronus! Master Fighter, are you listening? Open your audios!"

He blinked at the sudden noise, unsure of where it came from. Megatronus shook his armored helm and look up at the Council surrounding him. Sentinel Prime glared with unabashed fury at the gladiator below him, optics flaring bright mustard torches on his frame.

"You'd do well to respect the words of your Council, brute," Sentinel spat, his vocaliser almost dripping with lubricant. Megatronus simply held his gaze, not withdrawing an inch from the Prime and meeting him in the space between them, optic to optic. The two mechs grappled with each other in the void for a long moment, until Megatronus bowed deeply. The gladiator's optics were closed and his bladed digits held up in silent appeal.

"If it would please the most esteemed Primes gathered here," Megatronus replied, his blue orbs now focused straight on the group. "I would make a request of both our honored leaders and our great Grandmaster, as is my right by Kaon's ancient Rites of Release."

And that brought the final faceplate into Megatronus's view from the darkness the counsel hid themselves in. He was a colossus, a white and teal colored giant of smooth, large armor plates. Purple optics set deep into a regal helm studied Megatronus with all the skill and erudition of one to whom political dealings was a farce, if not a game for sparklings.

He spoke to the gladiator, in a deep, baritone smooth voice.

"We are aware of your earnings, Megatronus," Grandmaster Halogen drawled. "What is important is your demand. Tell us, Master Fighter, what is it that you ask of us? Will it be credits? Housing for you and any family members? Both? Speak and you shall receive."

Megatronus rose, his optics shut tight, his cyclers filtering and emptying slowly. The moment of truth. No turning back or cowing out now. Why would the mech have come this far only to have his nerves tear him away from the task at hand? This was so much larger than his pride or his embarrassment.

Optics still screwed tightly away, he began. "Honored Council, you do me great honor in even entertaining the thought of audience with me. No mech is more grateful than I. Despite this mighty service done to me, I ask but one other of you. I ask of you, from the goodness in your sparks, for the sake of Primus himself, do not let any more of his sparklings suffer. As you must know, wise council, there are injustices untold that are perpetrated beneath the very pedes of the citizens of Kaon. Spark-stealing, theft, assault, offlining. My people are in chains, forced into subjugation by their very brothers if their dermic plating is not brilliant enough. We are the victims of enough injustice for the end of time. Help us, Magistrates. Help us, Grandmaster, help me free my mother. Help a thousand mechs free their mothers. Help a thousand femmes free their little sons and daughters and sparklings too young to know the sting of oppression. Let every Seeker and every Eradicon stand shoulder pad to shoulder pad with every Mainline and every Praxian." His optics were open now. He interlocked his digits with a clang, his denta clenched together in a smile. "Every Elaborate mech with every Underfoot mech. Every Cybertronian, together."

Each Magistrate and even the Grandmaster himself, was silent. There was no indication that their audios had even heard him, no twist in their faceplates to tell him his revelation had been heard. Immediately, Megatronus knew something was wrong. His smile was wiped away and his optics narrowed in exasperation. He rose to his full height.

"Grandmaster?"He inquired, slowly. "Are you pondering? Do the good Council and yourself require time to convene?"

"No," Halogen replied, sharply. "We require no time to convene. Megatronus, we cannot grant you your wish." A snicker, so quiet it might have been the passing of Cybertron's solar winds, passed through the hall. A certain set of yellow optics crinkled in malicious amusement.

"What?!" Megatronus exclaimed, incredulous. " Why not? How can such a monumental deal of suffering of your own citizens be ignored?!" Denta bared, optics wide glowing bright blue and flaming, he let his outrage show. Out of his frame came some of that savage anger reserved for the Grand Pits.

"I need not explain my judgements to you, Master Fighter." Halogen's vocaliser curled downwards, souring his otherwise amiable features. "But tell me this : would you see these mechs and femmes freed at the expense of millions of lives?"

That had caught the gladiator off guard. What in the name of Cybertron was Halogen talking about? Megatronus must have looked more annoyed now than angry. One eyeridge raised high as he spoke "What? What do you speak of?"

"We are well aware of the bondage of the Underfoot Cybertronians under Kaon, Megatronus," Sentinel sneered. Megatronus turned to him, optics almost white with blue fury. "What we cannot allow is the starvation of our citizens across the planet. Kaon is the most energon ripe city on Cybertron. The toil of your race supports the economies and systems of millions. Would you see them die for the freedom of so few mechs and femmes?"

"Absolutely!" He roared like a Dinobot, his faceplate a twisted deathmask of rage. "A thousand times yes! What have they ever done for us?! What kindness have they ever given us but indifference, ambivalence, what plea of ours have they not ignored?!" He saw steam rise from him, the heat of his systems involuntarily overworking turning the colder air to mist.

"Warmonger!" Decimus Prime shouted, leaky pipes and bulbous frame rising from his chair. His servo pointed at the gladiator with one cylinder shaped digit. "This mech would see deaths untold to get his way! Grandmaster, we must expel this cretin immediately!"

"Decimus," Solus Prime urged, her wise voice tainted by neither age nor hardship. "Do not assume that Megatronus seeks some kind of genocide, and don't assume that he has thoughts of war on hs neural net. This mech seeks only freedom for his people, his family, from an unjust system run by an arrogant totalitarian. Why would we deny him that?"

"I heard that, wheel-grinder!" Sentinel leered.

"ENOUGH!" came the thundering sound of the Grandmaster's vocaliser. Each of the squabbling voices twisted into a circle by the room's acoustics fell silent. Megatronus fell quiet as well. Optics closed, he let his cyclers filter the air, stale with the scent of bureaucracy and indecisiveness, into his frame and out, taking all the dust and grime and filth out with it. In, out, in, out, and his rage was gone.

"Megatronus, despite the ravings of this council, I decide the final verdict," Halogen spoke, slowly and authoritatively. "And I find your lack of concern for the well-being of this planet not only repellent, " Halogen's voice became more angered and gravelly as he went on. "But I find it cause to throw you from this chamber and see that you never return! Dreadwing, Skyquake, remove this interloper from our hall! Soundwave, we will require . . . a record."

Another mech entered in the amphitheater-like Council seats above Megatronus. He was purple, with a lanky, spidery frame. He had no faceplate, not even optics, simply a glass visor with many readings diagrams, and bits of Cybertronian texts floating across it, too small for him to see. He sensed something . . . something innately wrong about this mech. Everything about him seemed disturbing, horrific. Megatronus had an idea that this mech, (Soundwave, he assumed) had seen many things in his lifetime no one should.

Closer to him, down on his and Starscream's level, two large, plain and undecorated doors slid open. From within emerged two titanic guardians, Seekers by the looks of them. Their armor sloped in elaborate pads and plates, and in frame design the two were identical. One had armor the color of Cybertron's night sky, with a yellow faceplate and highlights down his frame. The other, much larger than his twin, was a colossal combination of dark greys, greens and oranges.

Each of them seized one of his arms, the big mech, the green one, gripped Starscream's delicate frame under one gigantic hand, the Seeker's waist rotator in an iron grip as both he and Megatronus were carried out of the hall.

The gladiator struggled, but even his savage might couldn't fight against the mighty gravity that Dreadwing and Skyquake gripped him with. His optics looked to the council, past the sneering Sentinel, beyond the solemn looking Solus, through even the strangely silent and uninvolved Rodimus straight into the purple orbs of the Grandmaster.

He held that gaze as the ornate doors came up between them and they were thrown on the floor. Starscream cowered onto the floor, holding bladed servos between himself and the titans before him. The guards waved him off, a small smile on one of their faceplates.

"If it is any consolation," the dark blue guard said. "I too, see the truth in your argument, Master Fighter."

"That's a dangerous thought, Dreadwing," Skyquake answered. "You know we have a duty to the Grandmaster, brother. "

Dreadwing clasped his brother on the shoulder pad, smiling sadly. "That is true. Our duty comes first." Turning to Megatronus and Starscream, he added, "I am sorry, Master Fighter."

Then they turned and left, plodding back to their stations in the council chamber walls.

"T-that went well," Starscream stuttered, apprehensively helping Megatronus to his pedes. The gladiator stood there, silent, breathing slowly. The Seeker could see liquid streaming down Megatronus's faceplate, and despite his deep voice, he whimpered softly. "I-If it makes you feel any better, you certainly convinced me. Your words, never have I heard any more rousing or. . . moving. I saw the plight of the Underfoot Cybertronians in that room, Megatronus. I am with you."

Megatronus stayed silent, but turned his helm to face the seeker, optics still wet with coolant. Starscream nodded sincerely, but in those optics he saw only wounded pride, anguish, and the murderous finality of the knowledge that Megatronus had failed.

Suddenly those blue orbs widened and flared to life. Deep within his chassis his sparked ebbed with a sharp, serrated needle of pain, terrible enough to cause him to stumble. But now, so painful? It could only mean . . . He took off running, sprinting as far as his metal muscles would take him, and after a long moment the noise of steel reforming and rearranging from Transformation sounded, and jet engines roared to life.

Starscream followed.


	3. Chapter 3

Night falls on Cybertron. Many million of its residents recharge now, tucked into their berths with their sparkmates enjoying restful slumbers coming hand in hand with spectacular dreams. They recharge frugally, their neural nets untainted by an trace of worry or anxiety.

But not the citizens of Simfur. Tonight, as all nights are, is the time when blasters are readied and doors are locked tight. Tonight is the time neural nets are in overdrive, optics and audios turned up to eleven to detect any sign of the energon-drunk marauders that everyone, Praxian and Mainline and Seeker and Underfoot, knows really own this city.

And their leader has to say, the blueish midnight color that night paints Cybertron's sky goes marvelously with his finish.

Knockout looks out over the balcony of the old and completely abandoned former energon depot. All along the street below him, the rows of dwellings fading into darkness in the midnight melt, lights were going out. Families, stern mothers and fathers and scared little sparklings dug in for the night and were ready to kill until morning. No matter, at least, not to him. All that mattered to the Praxian crime-lord was making sure his Vehicon subordinates were stocking up the High Grade energon for transport and making sure that he got it to Sideways, his contact in Kaon. The mech was the most infuriating little freeloader he'd ever met, always squeezing more credits or goods out of him under threat of reporting Knockout's safe houses to Sentinel Prime ; Knockout knew exactly how that would turn out. Honestly the Praxian wished he could just send Breakdown, or better yet Wheeljack to go ring the little wheel-grinder's neck cables and teach him a lesson.

He took a long drag of the energon cube in his servo, savoring the delicious, creamy burn of it as it flooded his gastrointestinal tanks. 'Yes,' he thought. 'I think I'll do that. Primus knows nobody will miss the lug.'

The wind that often blew hard and cold across the surface of Cybertron suddenly felt very distant as Knockout felt a strong pat on his shoulder pad, by someone with much larger servos than his. And, as he turned to see the hulking midnight blue mech that was his second-in-command, Breakdown, with a terrified look in his optics, he abruptly realized that all was not well.

From downstairs, where the Vehicons were loading the last of the High Grade into tow trailers, sounds of battle could be heard. Scraps of offlined Vehicons or other bots clattered against what Knockout assumed was the walls of the depot, and the surging sound of energon emanated from the bottom of the stair, as bots were slashed open and their chassi carved away.

"Time to book it?" Knockout raised an eyeridge, his optics trailing to the stairway while Breakdown nodded frantically. For such a big bot, Breakdown seemed quite faint-sparked. As a dirty strongman in Simfur's very prominent criminal underworld, such a trait was rather unbecoming of him. In fact, Knockout realized it was foreign to Breakdown entirely. Breakdown wasn't squeamish. He'd seen and done things to bots, femmes, little sparklings of mechs who'd crossed them. As simple as Breakdown was, he was no stranger to violence.

So what had him so spooked?

The two charged down the stair, and Knockout soon saw what had soured Breakdown's circuits so vehemently.

The Vehicons were locked tight in the warm embrace of a firefight. The purple, grown-from-eggs mechs ducked behind their loading equipment, only turning back to the carnage to launch a few desperate volleys of energon shots back at the invaders. Despite the advantage of numbers, the Vehicons were being felled quicker and quicker as the battle passed on. Scarlet-tinged visors went dark around the room and purple limbs were severed by blaster fire and crushed by one particular wrecking ball.

"Breakdown!" Knockout shouted over the chaos. "Gather survivors and get the High Grade to Kaon! I'm going to find Wheeljack and put this slag-eater down once and for all!" Breakdown nodded, some of his resolve coming back, and busted a hole in the depot with his hammers, a group of near seven Vehicons following him out in their vehicle modes once he had Transformed. Two of them, larger and more powerfully built than the others, carried blue, almost white glowing cubes within the beds of their vehicle modes.

And so Knockout's servos transformed into whirling, vortex-like saw blades. And he turned to the source of the firefight.

He was a big mech, at least as large and imposing as Breakdown. Though not as tall or proportionate, it made him stout and firm where he stood, evidenced by a Vehicon who tried to engage him in melee combat. The bulky green mech tore both of his arms from their joints, and then gripped him by the pedes and swung him towards a group of his comrades. The Vehicons targeted were swiftly knocked unconscious by the corpse of their fallen colleague. Another tried to assault him, slicing long but shallow gouges into his chassis. The green mech converted his servo into a giant wrecking ball, and crushed the Vehicon's faceplate into powder.

On the plus side, Knockout noted that the invader was rather slow to respond to new threats. A smirk crossed the Praxian's faceplate. Ducking behind the smoking remains of what had once been a energon processing tank, he reached in between his backstrut wheels and retrieved a short, prong-ended cylinder, grey with a copper rim at the joints between prong and grip. One flip of the switch and the two ends extended to three times their normal size, white bolts of electricity dancing across the two prongs.

Now to take out the scrap.

Knockout leapt over the spent tank, his pedes clanking against the black-rock floor at what seemed like superspeed. The hulking green mech's optics were in another direction, his blasters aimed at all the wrong places, he'd never see Knockout coming-

And then he noticed, light blue tinged orbs turning to look into Knockout's scarlet stained red ones. Knockout could see pain there, anguish, and he realized that, over the last few joors that this mech had attacked them before. Some vengeful vendetta? A crossed client?

But they only locked gazes for a moment. The mech struck with his wrecking ball, and Knockout slid out of the way like a smoky snake. He angle out of the green invader's crushing blows and struck out with the staff like a javelin, jamming the prong right into a cluster of neck cables.

The bot's entire frame shook and convulsed. Every circuit and energon fuel line within him was overloaded with unnecessary charge, and his neural net couldn't take it. The mech's optics shut, and he fell, with a loud clank, to the ground.

The shooting suddenly stopped, and all the Vehicons still alive reposed from behind their cover, surrounding their fallen foe. Knockout slapped one of them on the back of the helm, anger and anxiety on his faceplate. "You and you," he yelled, pointing to another across from him. "Drag this hunk of slag to our safehouse. The rest of you, get this fragging energon out of here and will SOMEONE GET ME WHEELJACK BEFORE I BUST A GASKET!"

The Vehicons scattered about the facility, packing up all supplies and tools and preparing to move on. Two of the identical Cybertronians came to Knockout, bringing with them a gruff looking, green, red and white mech. Wheeljack had an odd looking helm, with frontal crests like some species of Dinobot. He was well-built, constructed obviously and masterfully for brawling. The two hilts of slender swords jutted from his backstrut.

Knockout slung his arm over Wheeljack's shoulder pad. "The Vehicons are morons," he whispered to his primary henchmech. "Make sure they get the fragger who hit us where he needs to go. I'll have Moonracer . . . ahem, ready for you. " Wheeljack nodded, content as usual to be paid in pleasure-bots Knockout had . . . acquired. Simple mech, simple taste. Simfur didn't raise soft sons. The sword-wielding mech was the hardest of them all.

"Well, whaddaya waiting for?" Wheeljack barked to the Vehicons. "Get this lug outta here, ya wheel-grinders!" He slapped two of them on the backstruts and they began, unsuccessfully, trying to move the massive bot. Knockout grinned, pleased with his subordinate. Putting his servos to his vocaliser, he called "The rest of you : MOVE OUT!"

The last of the identical Cybertronians completed their tasks and in small groups, Transformed and drove with screaming tires out into Simfur's inky black night. Knockout followed, leaving Wheeljack and his detail to take care of the big green mech. Where a Praxian had left the building, a yellow-rimmed, red-hued sports car exited it, engines revving up and flaming out of the exhaust pipe located at his rear. The sounds of the roaring parts within him echoed into the night, like ragged trails of hell leading from one wrecked energon depot into Simfur's organs. And suddenly, it stopped.

"Starscream? What in the name of Primus are you- who?! What?! Now? Well you'll have to wait! Some slagger just - no! I refuse! I'm not some tool for some ogre from Kaon- oh, fine!"

Earlier, deep below Kaon and in the bowels of planet Cybertron . . .

Starscream was certain he was going to die down here. If the natives didn't kill him, then surely the diseases and the pure ash he was vacuuming into his frame would do the trick.

Above everything else ; the sneering Underfoot mechs with dirty frames and dim optics that glared at him and brandished weapons, the coughing cases of Energon Diffusion doomed to die, the soot-covered foundries and domed huts practically falling to pieces, the crowded streets Megatronus led him through with yelling mothers and families packed together by market stalls and corroded pools of energon staining the technoscape, to the fragging heat welling up from the black rock core of the planet, from the slag that was cooled into tools and weapons and the heat those tools generated, by the billions, as they dug their way into the uncountable walls and crevasses of Cybertron's stone insides ; above all of that what disturbed him was the way he completely ignored Starscream for the entirety of the journey. His faceplate a mask of pure steel while he plodded on. No doubt Megatronus was willing his entire frame to continue pushing on, aches of fatigue from pede to spark chamber, but the commotion of the Underfoot population of Kaon would not stop him. That, and the look in his optics.

Pure terror. Anxiety that latched into his frame with barbed claws. Desperate anguish lacing through the blue orbs and just please, please no . . . This was the faceplate of a mech who, despite all of his power and his prowess and his dreams, only really needed one thing.

He turned a sidestreet, Starscream's own lithe frame struggling to keep up with the massive warrior. The pair came to a dwelling, similar to the others but far larger and more rectangular. Megatronus burst through the entryway, suddenly a typhoon of anger as he hurried several bots in the parlor out, in tongues Starscream would consider alien.

Ty'shoto mekrai to bur sei kal! He roared, withdrawing his impressive blade from his arm and growling, his denta bared. The Underfoot mechs didn't need any more convincing. All vacated the home, and Megatronus barreled his way down a long hallway, and then stopped in the entryway. Starscream, once he had caught up, looked over the bladed shoulder pad of the gladiator and he gasped.

The assemblage was odd. The room contained few things, only a medical berth, a few brightly colored bots who Starscream recognized as Elaborate doctors, and . . . the femme in the berth. She was old, not as old as Solus Prime, but advanced in age nonetheless. Definitely Underfoot, she bore a great resemblance to Megatronus, with the blue optics and the aggressively jagged armor. However, she was not the chrome and red Megatronus was. She was dark, dark black, like the color of some cosmic void. Her helm was shaped differently than his, less like a helmet and with more jagged side crests than Megatronus. A black goo was spread across her faceplate, like jelly and the webs of the eight legged, almost microscopic organisms that Starscream had heard of in the logs of Cybertronian space explorers. It was clear she was dying. What Starscream hadn't seen till then as the collection of sparklings of all different ages, all gathered around the fading femme's berth in rapt attentiveness. The Seeker noticed that they were all dirty, smeared with grime and soot, and they were all Underfoot.

"I have . . ." The femme suddenly spoke, coughing deep and ragged. "I have one more tale to tell you, young ones. Something fond that you might remember me by. A good thing, it is. Carry it with you, future generations."

She coughed again, so fluid filled, and so tearing, that Starscream was sure that she might die right there. One of the doctors, a fit-looking bot with a red and white color scheme, as well as helm horns that doubled as his eyeridges, waved her down. Clearly he thought he could still save her. The femme thought otherwise, and silenced the Elaborate with a ginger press of her servo on his. "It is alright, Ratchet. You have done all you can. I've been online for longer than I should have, and is it not the least I can do to impart something good to the little sparklings? They'll need it."

He slumped in defeat, and nodded. She cleared her throat and continued.

"In the beginning, little ones, when Primus was building us, he did not divide us by the color of our dermal plating. All of us were one, and we celebrated our greys and our blacks and our greens and our blues. But he asked each of us what gift we might wish to have ; elegance or humility. Immediately, some of the bots chose elegance before anyone else could. The rest of us, well . . . we were rewarded by being the most humble and meek mechs and femmes Cybertron ever spawned. Ever since then the elegant ones have been shouting over everyone else and the humble ones have been quiet and accepting of all. What this should teach you, little ones, is to use your gifts. The walk to freedom is better achieved with an alt-mode. And here he is, he who will guide us out of our holes and into Primus's light once again, who wil gain us our freedom."

She relaxed suddenly, closing her eyes, breathing shallow and near silent. Megatronus entered the room, slow and methodical his movements. Every sparkling's optics were fixated on him, and soon enough so was the old femme watching him.

"Ah," she said, her voice as warm as it could be in her final few minutes. "He returns. My, how big you've gotten since you went off to get your mother out of this old mine. And so strong!"

Megatronus knelt next to her. His optics were shut, and he was still. Ratchet, the medic, shook him on the shoulder pad vehemently. "You have to move back, Underfoot. We don't want to risk the contagion spreading further than this femme-"

Suddenly the blue orbs of the gladiator shot open, his gargantuan frame twisting as his blade emerged from its holding spot. The huge sword made for Ratchet, intending to slice him from shoulder pad to waist rotator. The Elaborate doctor ducked out of the way, only for his comrade to take the blow.

As the golden-faceplated bot fell to the floor in two neat sections, Ratchet cried out, "Red Alert! No!" But he had no time to grieve as he was again about to be the victim of the wrath of the Shark of Kaon.

But the blow never came. Ratchet's optics cracked open and he saw with the last of her strength, the dying femme had gripped her son's arm in one weak servo. The gladiator's optics, a blue-white thunderstorm intent on naught but death, slatted over to her. Ratchet ran from the dwelling and all heard the sounds of Transformation and screeching tires.

"S-save your energy, Megatronus. Come to me. Come here, my son." Her voice was but a whisper now. He leaned in close, his optics leaking coolant as hers steadily began to dim.

"N-never be afraid of your power. G-give in to it, revel in i-it. M-make use of what I h-have given you, my darling son. Never, n-never apologize to anyone for what you look like. I-if they will not free us, then we must free ourselves. Freedom is the right of all s-sentient beings. Look a-at them, Megatronus of K-Kaon. A-are they n-not sentient?"

Her digit, pointed at all of the sparklings, their faceplates twisted in anguish, was shaking now. Red optics had become maroon, and steadily faded to black.

"Y-yes, mother."

"You must make the Elaborates colorblind. Take away from them t-their p-prejudice, and w-what have t-they to hate us f-for? Their neural nets m-must b-be. . . ."

They stared now, blank, black, expressionless.


End file.
